


Shell of a Man

by tsukinofaerii



Category: Marvel 616
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-16
Updated: 2010-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukinofaerii/pseuds/tsukinofaerii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Avengers Kink: Steve/Living Armour. Dub con, Steve think's it's just Tony being a kinky bastard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shell of a Man

Steve stretched out on a sofa in the library, enjoying the quiet Sunday morning . He was half-way through a biography of Bob Dylan, and hoped to be finished with it by bed. Modern American culture was something that he still felt slightly out of touch with. Reading about the people who shaped it helped; he understood it better when it unfolded through their lives. Once this book was done, the Beatles were waiting on his bookshelf.

Metal clanked in the hall. Steve looked up from his book to see Iron Man' shadow looming in the doorway. His helmeted head was tilted at an angle, like a dog trying to suss out a new command.

"Tony, what's wrong?" he slipped a bookmark in and sat up. "Did something happen?" His communicator hadn't gone off, but maybe it had malfunctioned.

"Nothing happened." Tony's voice was, as always, filtered by the helmet. It was hollow and cold and utterly inhuman‐as unlike Tony's real voice as could be imagined. Steve had heard Tony's voice in every range, from the height of passion to the slow, depressed slur of a drunken stupor. _Inhuman_ wasn't a word that ever, ever applied. "Stay there."

Brow furrowing, Steve obediently sank back into the couch, book held loosely between his fingers. He watched Iron Man move slowly closer, pausing to touch side tables and right small imperfections in the way a lampshade was hung. Something was different. Tony never gave him orders when they weren't in a fight.

"What's going on?"

"Be quiet." Armor joints creaked as Tony swung a knee over Steve's hips. He grabbed the book and threw it aside. The helmet tilted this way and that, investigating. Under the nearly-inaudible hum of the armor, Steve heard beeps as he was scanned. As far as he could tell behind the mask, Tony was looking at his crotch.

Surprised heat pooled in his stomach. So _that_ was the game. "What if I don't want to be quiet?" he asked, voice low. His fingers wove together over his stomach. "What if I want to be loud?"

Cold fingers grabbed his wrists. The pressure was just hard enough to bruise, sending sharp little jabs of pain up Steve's arms as they were wrenched over his head. "Then I will make you."

Steve pushed back against the hold, but for the first time since they'd started sleeping together, Tony didn't give. With the armor's strength backing him up, Steve couldn't even move him an inch.

He kept trying. "Then you're going to have to‐ _Hey_!" In a single swipe, Tony wrapped his fist around Steve's waistband and yanked. It cut into his waist, bruising into his hipbones before it ripped. The seams gave way next, shredding like paper, leaving Tony with a fistful of striped cloth. "What are you doing? Tony‐"

He choked on a sudden, unexpected mouthful of cloth. Gauntleted fingertips jabbed into the back of his throat, choking him again. Shock made Steve yank harder on his arms, a real attempt for freedom. Tony didn't even seem to notice the effort.

 _It's okay,_ he told himself, panting for air through his nose as his briefs were taken next. _It's okay, it's Tony. You told him it was okay._ Weeks before, he'd done his best to convince Tony that rough was okay, he didn't have to be so gentle. They'd argued, and Tony hadn't given in, had been afraid of being _too_ rough, of losing control, but maybe he'd finally come around. Maybe this was his way of giving in. He'd realize he couldn't do much damage to Steve. That had to be it.

Strips of his pants wrapped around his wrists in a tight knot, nearly cutting off circulation. Steve jerked and fought. Being restrained was never good‐Nazis loved to tie him up and torment him. _It's okay, it's Tony,_ he repeated silently, pushing the old memories back and away. A longer piece of cloth was used to tie his hands over his head, using the decorative holes cut into the couch's wood as an anchor. _It's okay, it's Tony. It's okay..._

Sharp metal joints dug into his hips as he was summarily lifted and a pillow shoved under his lower back. Steve kept fighting lightly, forcing himself to stay calm, to only play at panic. If he acted afraid, Tony would never loosen up again.

He hoped to God Tony wasn't monitoring his pulse. It was through the roof.

Nothing could stop him from crying out in protest when two hard, smooth fingers jammed up inside of him. Something tore, a hot little shard of pain. He would heal, but it _hurt._ The gauntlet's joints caught as they pulled out, little catches of metal. There was no lubricant, but things smoothed out and became slicker quickly. Probably blood.

 _...It's okay, it's Tony..._

Another hand wrapped around him, pumping slowly. It took him too long to get even half hard‐Tony would worry, he'd be upset. Steve swallowed and tried to think of the man in the armor, who was only trying to give him what he asked for. Tony, the way he'd been there when Steve first woke up, stronger than even he knew, beautiful even with his scars. Especially with his scars, with all the signs of what he'd been through, the adversity he'd overcome. If Steve thought hard enough, he could feel them under his fingertips, thin traceries and thick ropes, pale pink against gold skin.

 _...It's okay, it's Tony..._

It did the trick. He got hard, still not as fast as usual, but enough. Tony's fingers in him curved, now body-warm as they slid over his prostate. The hand pumping him was slow and precise, exactly one second per repetition. The thrill of adrenalin worked with him, shuddering through his veins. Steve groaned as he came, nearly sobbing behind the impromptu gag.

Tony stopped. Just stopped, exactly as he was. Then, slowly, he pulled away, helmet angled down at his hands. White marred one, while rusty brown-red streaked the fingers of the other. Steve stayed limp on the sofa, waiting to be freed. He ached; inside, at his wrists and his shoulders, and in a sick little knot in his stomach.

 _It's not okay._

Without a word, Tony turned and walked away.


End file.
